. . . .
Blade, where are you going?
My father. My father’s back.
Walking up the hill
is Rutherford with shoulders slumped and head hung low, Uncle Stevie toting the guitar over his shoulder, and Birdie trailing not too far behind.
As Rutherford gets closer I know.
It’s all over his face
just like before when I was ten.
My heart dives into to my stomach, stops for a second then starts swimming so hard, so fast.
I run to him.
I don’t want him to say it.
I want him
to swallow
the news,
take us back to yesterday when it didn’t exist, before there was this drowning.
The worst weapon unleashed
on a person
are the words, those unforgiving words, heavy with loss.
She’s gone, he cries.
WHY?
We’ll never know.
No one can ever explain a tragedy.
We can only write about it.
Sing about it.
Dance with it.
Move through it.
He throws fists to the clouds.
Swearing away any good
he ever intended.
Yelling
at anybody everybody.
Then he grabs his guitar and starts playing,
walking through the street like he’s shredding the place between
heaven
and earth.
Like he’s speed-riffing a conversation with God.
His strings are wild horses running
with emotions, through time and space.
The villagers follow him in awe,
join in his testimony, hear
his guitar scream:
WHY WHY WHY.
The drummers appear.
The children chant.
The shekeres shake.
The people march.
The music BOOMS!
The Procession
We march,
collect more
and more
mourning passengers as we walk
through Konko
following him,
a human train
keeping momentum in beautiful sorrow.
We sing words
I don’t understand, but can feel
and know.
We cry with colors that spill from our eyes, and walk around trees, and can’t stop singing.
We won’t stop singing.
The music lives.
Rutherford stops near the well
where I first
met Joy.
He turns to face the crowd
like he wants
to say something.
A eulogy, perhaps.
But this is not a funeral.
A few weeks ago, a young man came to your village searching for his soul, and you welcomed him.
The drummers pound.
He fell into your arms, and you held him, and I thank you, Konko, he continues.
The crowd cheers, Blade, Blade, Blade!
Then they part,
like a sea opening, this time for me to come
swimming through.
I shake my head, but they won’t take no for an answer.
Their chants grow louder.
Joy pushes me
forward.
Today, we honor Konko. We honor a thousand seasons of your heart, Rutherford preaches, like he’s been saved.
The dancers dance in a circle of drumming ‘til they all halt in a single BOOM!
Most of all, we honor our precious little Sia, he says, handing me the guitar. You know what to do.
And, this time, I do.
Ladies and gentlemen, my son, Blade Morrison.
Solo
Precious memories
Fade like grass they say
All my memories
Of you are fresh as yesterday I’d trade the best years of my life For one hour of your time
But that gets tricky, I’d get greedy And try to keep you by my side I need you like a heart needs blood to flow I need you like a tree needs sun to grow All the silly, little games we used to play A Sunny life fading to gray
But I know I’m not alone again I know I always can depend
On the times I hear
Your laughter in the wind
You promised to take care of me And in the times I cannot see I feel your presence here with me always At this moment, I wish you were here When my name is called I’d love To feel embarrassed by your cheers I’ll still march on, holding my head high Because of who you were and how you loved me I know I will survive
You smiled in hard times and danced in the rain You loved and lived so hard no one can complain But I miss you, and I miss you Precious memories
fade like grass they say
All our memories
Of you are fresh as yesterday I’d trade the best years of my life for one hour of your cries
But that gets tricky, you start winking, I get lost inside your eyes
But I know I’m not solo again I know I always can depend
On the times I hear
Your laughter in the wind
We promise to take care of you But now it’s time for something new Your presence will encourage us always You smiled in hard times and danced in the rain You loved and lived so hard no one can complain But we miss you, and I miss you ? BLADE MORRISON
I sing
for Sunny, for precious memories of laughter and love.
I sing for Sia, little Blackbird flying free.
I sing for Lucy.
Auntie. Mother. New shape of my heart.
I sing
for Storm and Joy.
For Robert, my graduation class, and even Chapel.
I sing for my father and all the people who have
given me something to live for.
But, most of all I sing
for myself.
The spider I’m finally ready
to face.
I play the song inside
that’s been waiting for me to listen.
The one I’m finally ready to hear.
Acknowledgments
This book is our love letter to rock and roll. We had a blast remembering the music that shaped our young lives, and writing Solo. We are grateful for the many people who offered encouragement along the way: Arielle Eckstut (agent and business partner extraordinaire), Annette Bourland, Londa Alderink, Sara Merritt, Liane Worthington, and Denise Froehlich (the super stellar Blink team), Jacque Alberta (wise editorial sage), Ann Marie Stephens, Sue Fliess, and Tinesha Davis (our devoted and opinionated writing “band”), Randy Preston (our awesome song and melody maker), Lezlie Evans (who brought us together), Owen Tharrington (who got his little sister hooked on KISS at age three), Mike and Becky York (our generous and patient writing retreat hosts), Juanita Britton (who introduced us to Ghana, and its beautiful people), and Emefa Ansah (who exemplifies hope). We thank our supportive families, who make sure we never have to roll solo.
Finally, thanks to YOU for checking out Solo. To find out more information on Kwame’s literacy efforts in Ghana, visit LeapforGhana.org; to find out more about how you can help fight malaria, visit Malarianomore.org; and to listen to some of Blade’s music, visit KwameAlexander.com/SoloMusicBonus.
Rock ’n’ Roll, Baby!